


the honey from the comb, it's melting on my lips

by philthestone



Series: algo en absoluto (before the sunrise) [2]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, companion piece to 'besame', this is gross i cant believe myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 19:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6021828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wonders why a small part of her was almost expecting something typical, like aftershave or Old Spice; anything other than the fruit and the coffee and the hint of sugary breakfast cereal she can taste on his lips. </p><p>It's unexpected, but so incredibly familiar and comforting, and absurdly, Amy almost wants to cry. </p><p>(She blames <em>that</em> on the too-bright "1:05 a.m." on her phone screen, though, and goes back to kissing Jake.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the honey from the comb, it's melting on my lips

**Author's Note:**

> COMPANION PIECE TO THE LAST ONE 
> 
> happy belated valentines day, btw
> 
> reviews are heaps of love

They’ve been pressed together on the couch for maybe three minutes when Amy’s hands slip down from his cheeks to press against the front of Jake’s shirt. There’s a sleep-heavy, comfortable tempo to her movements that is unfamiliar to her, and she’s wondering if the heat still lingering on her cheeks is from the kissing or his earlier comments or her own, even earlier anxiety, creeping up and burning gently underneath her skin. 

He’d said, breathless and with colour blooming across the fair skin on the bridge of his nose, _Can I kiss you?_ A question almost reverent in its stumbling, nearly-incoherent articulation, and she’s found in the past day alone that so many of the things Jake does make her stomach twist itself into tap-dancing knots and her fingers tingle and thrill –

But this – the constant stream of unfiltered, babbled comments, unbelievably sincere and sweet in their accidental candor and such that Amy’s sure Jake hasn’t quite thought all their implications through – _this_ , more than anything, is making her heart consistently flutter up to her throat.

Jake’s softer than she ever thought possible: warm and solid and pliable under her fluttering hands on the couch. She can feel his hesitation, the careful way his fingers brush against her, even as they grip her waist more tightly, the groove of his large hands fitting up against the fabric of her t-shirt and his breath whispering against her skin. Even when they’re kissing he can’t stop talking, incoherent mumbles that Amy’s brain is too overtired to try to decipher. 

He’s firm and solid but _soft_ , soft and gentle and so wonderfully _Jake_ , and Amy feels herself ease forward against his chest when his thumb flicks out and rubs against her ribcage. She can feel the cheap material of his shirt rumple under her hands, open to her through his unbuttoned plaid. They’ve been sitting on the couch for what Amy knows has been hours, and her own sweatshirt is hung neatly over the lone massage chair that now occupies the other end of Jake’s living room; she remembers, now, suddenly and in technicolour, the moment where Jake had stretch one arm over his head, stifling a yawn, and plucked at his shirt buttons with his other hand.

With her face this close to his, Amy can smell the lingering traces of the coffee from that afternoon and the weirdly fruity scent of his shampoo. She is hyperaware, of every breath and twitch and sound and movement, each colour and curve, her mind committing details to memory with a desperation that she thinks might have to do with the muddle that is the night before. It’s bright and soso sweet, tangling up in her senses, and she feels the erratic cadence of her heartbeat (that had, earlier, once again jumped when she leaned forward to kiss him, brought on by the persistent realization that this was _real_ and _serious_ and _happening_ ) ebb away.

(She wonders why a small part of her was almost expecting something typical, like aftershave or Old Spice; anything other than the fruit and the coffee and the hint of sugary breakfast cereal she can taste on his lips, and she nearly laughs aloud, because there’s something undeniably comforting, filling her chest and lungs and arms and everything with a warm, grounding feeling that absurdly almost makes her want to cry.)

(This is _Jake_ in front of her – goofy, grinning, sometimes-workaholic Jake, her partner of the last seven years – and this is so _easy_.)

Jake hums - loud enough that she can hear him properly, this time - and she can feel him smiling, lips curling against her cheek. She’s zoning in on the little details, of the pressure of his leg against her and the warmth of his hand, now on her hip – so entirely focused on moving her mouth away from his to press kisses along the three freckles dotting his cheek that she doesn’t even realize her hands have drifted down to the hem of his rumpled button down and past that, fingers skimming the edge of his t-shirt and slipping under. Jake’s breath catches in her ear and she can feel his palms press a little hard against her sides, nose bumping awkwardly against hers as she comes down to find his mouth again. Unmediated, Amy’s hands press against his midriff, above the waist of his jeans. 

It’s soft there, too, and Amy’s hands trail against his warm skin, still distracted by the feeling of Jake’s other thumb against her ribs –

And Jake _giggles_.

“What?” asks Amy, breathless, pulling away, the pressure of his sudden laughter still lingering against her bottom lip. His cheeks are beautifully flushed, pink and bright and dappling down to his neck and his collar is half turned up and she realizes that her hands are still fitted up under the hem of his shirt.

“Amy, what’re you –” He looks down at her hands, and then back up at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling with laughter.

“What?” says Amy, feeling her stomach swoop. There’s a pause until the next words spill out of her mouth, and in it she can feel her heart thump against her chest with sudden anxiety. “What did I – I mean, just – I dunno, I just? Put my hands –”

“It _tickles_ ,” says Jake, the end of his words jumping up into another laugh as Amy moves her hand. “What – what is this, you’re rubbing my tummy –”

“No I’m – oh my God, Jake, I just –”

“C’mere,” he says. She looks up again to face him and sees the wide grin on his face, hears the second giggle escape after his words. She ducks her head on impulse, the neck of her t-shirt feeling hot and chafing and her stomach buzzing, but Jake’s hands splay against her back again, tugging her forward and pulling her up against his chest. Amy’s cheek bumps against his chin; she grins, small and hesitant into his shoulder when he laughs again, his arms tightening around her. “You’re so weird.”

“Am not,” says Amy, muffled, into his collar bone.

“Super weird,” says Jake. “I’m making out with a weirdo.”

“You _were_ ,” Amy points out, pulling her hand away from under his shirt and poking him in the chest. “We stopped now.”

“I can’t believe you were tickling me, Santiago.”

“Not on purpose!”

“Such outright betrayal of _trust_ –”

“I was trying to _move things forward_ ,” huffs Amy, biting down on her lip to stop herself from smiling.

“Mmm,” says Jake. “Your hair smells really good.”

“God, who’s the weirdo now,” says Amy, but she can feel the heat on her cheeks again, tingling under her skin, and she bites down a little harder on her lip.

(She needs to stop the blushing thing, she thinks. Sometime soon. Not now, because she it might be one in the morning and she’s too tired. But: soon.)

“It’s okay,” Jake tells her. “At least now I know that you totally love my six-pack of abs.”

He jumps, squeaking, when Amy’s quick fingers poke him again. She can hear her own laugh in her ears: it’s tired and a little jittery, worn down by the non-stop rush and roar of the past two days – but _full_ and _happy_ and filling up her chest. And okay, so maybe she can taste the lingering sticky-sweetness of Lucky Charms on her lips, but Amy’s still laughing when Jake drops his head and presses feather-light kisses to her shoulder, his eyes drooping shut and his arms snaking around her waist.

(It’s one in the morning, and tomorrow Amy will realize she has no work clothes with her and the microwave opens to reveal a bent-out-of-shape packet of coffee filters and _is there anything to eat in this house other than breakfast cereal?_ \- but right now Jake is soft and a little rumpled and smelling like strawberries and day-old coffee, and Amy thinks that it’ll be okay.)


End file.
